


Does it hurt?

by Grantairethecynic



Category: markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Angst, forgotten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 01:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grantairethecynic/pseuds/Grantairethecynic
Summary: What happens to Mark’s egos when they’re inevitably forgotten? Do they continue to live on or do they simply...cease to exist?





	Does it hurt?

It was in a meeting that it first happened. Wilford was rambling on about ways to try and gain popularity again - another harebrained scheme to try and put off the inevitable. Two of them were already gone by now. Ed Edgar and the Silver Shepherd had both just...stopped showing up to meetings, and although there was little proof, there’s truly only one option.

A pulling, dizzying sensation tugged at his chest as the cotton candy ego’s voice seemed to speed up and the room swayed. No one else seemed to notice the way they all seemed to be put on fast forward or the way his hands seemed to flicker slightly on the table. No one else seemed effected when it all snapped back to normal in a gut wrenching lurch. No one else seemed to notice the panic in his distracted gaze or the way he was looking between them subtly. No one else seemed to notice that is, except the concerned brown gaze across from him and, of course, the crimson eyes fixed on him from the end of the table.

The meeting ends and he’s stopped at the door by a firm but nonthreatening hand on the shoulder of his suit and a faint ringing in his ears. Bright, espresso eyes meet red innocently. As if he doesn’t know a goodbye when he sees it.

Is this death, he wonders, as silent steps carry him down the hallway. Or is it simply non existence? On a typical day, he might even seek out The Host to have a lighthearted discussion on the matter but today...today that doesn’t feel right. Instead he starts towards the studio, turning the lights on immediately when he walks in. He’d always hated the darkness.

Of course, they had talked about this. The Cyndago egos would likely be the first to go, having had only one or two videos of screen time. In a way it was to be expected but isn’t it always? It never quite makes it easier.

He ignores the pitying glances and the hot latte on his desk, brought in by someone or other as some kind of odd thanks. This isn’t what he wants it to be like.

Instead, Bim does what he does best. He gets to work.

Running around backstage, directing spotlights, editing videos, getting yelled at by a certain pink clad ego - it’s almost normal, almost comforting at this point. An odd home of sorts, created in his job. So he keeps himself busy with cuts and footage and film reels. He keeps himself busy with green screens and contestants and cleaning blood from the floor again. He keeps himself busy and pretends he isn’t getting slower, pretends his form doesn’t flicker every few minutes, pretends it isn’t getting faster. He pretends until it’s the middle of the night and his hand keeps phasing through his mouse and the clock shouldn’t be going this fast and the footage is rolling at one quarter speed. He pretends until he can barely keep track of the world racing past him, the one sided conversation the doctor seems to be having with him, speaking too fast for him to decipher. He pretends until a kind of numbing agony burns through his limbs like coming in out of the snow, frostbitten and tired and home. He pretends until he can’t even see the table in front of him and he isn’t sure where he is - is it his desk? The board table? He isn’t sure. Sometimes, he can see Dark, sitting nearby for what he knows must be hours, just watching the spot where he sits- no, where he sat. Maybe the demon knows he can see him. Bim Trimmer pretends until his mind ceases to function and all thought is numbed by the void space. By life racing past, by time blurring into one big ball of meaningless nothingness.

It’s cold, wherever he is.

Empty, too.

 

He’d always hated the darkness.


End file.
